We Could Be Heroes

by Margaret Finnegan

  “I don’t know what ‘spontaneous’ means.”

  “It means doing something without thinking. But it’s my turn to talk right now: I’m not mad. Your mom’s not mad either. We know your heart was in the right place and we’re just glad you’re okay. But Mr. Jorgensen feels betrayed. He thinks you were using him and that all you ever wanted was to take Booler, and not only did you take him, but you got him hurt.”

  Hank slumped forward. “You’re making me feel bad.”

  His father leaned closer. He tried to catch Hank’s eye, but Hank turned and looked at the mountain in the distance.

  “Maybe you need to feel bad, bud. I thought we’d been through this. That’s not how you want to be treated. That’s not how you treat your friends.”

  Hank blinked and took another sip of water. His heart had been in the right place—Dad said so. He had tried to save a life, to do the right thing. Yet, somehow, it had been the wrong thing. He really did not want to think about Booler with a bucketful of stitches, or about the stealing he’d done, but he couldn’t help himself. He was making himself feel bad. Maybe he needed to, like Dad said. Maybe that’s what he owed Booler.

  Avoiding Dad’s gaze, he took the envelope that his father had placed on the bed. Inside it, he found a card from Maisie. On the outside, Maisie had drawn a picture of her, Hank, and Booler in front of their tent. On the inside it said, “Dear Hank: I hope you feel better. You are a good friend. Thank you for being the opposite of a lemon, which is, I guess, an orange. Thank you for being an orange! Ha ha… Orange you glad we’re friends?”

  Hank closed the card and rested it on his chest. He would have plenty of time to feel bad about betraying Mr. Jorgensen and getting Booler hurt, but… “Orange you glad we’re friends?” How could he not smile at that?

  * * *

  Hank was in the hospital for one more day. Most of it was spent listening to his mom tell him how lucky he was that the bull had not hit any major organs, how fortunate it was that the woman in the bathrobe had heard about them running away and had alerted the police about their whereabouts, and how amazing it was that Mrs. Vera’s volunteer search-and-rescue team was nearby when the police got the call. Then his mom would get weepy as she repeated that she—his mother, who loved him more than anything—had almost died of worry wondering where he was, and how he was not allowed to ever run away again, and how she was so, so, so glad he was okay.

  He was relieved that she did not say the things Dad said, but he remembered those things, and every time he did he remembered Booler standing up to the bull. His dad was right. They had not saved Booler. They had nearly killed him.

  “But he’s doing much better now,” said Maisie, who came to visit him the afternoon he got home from the hospital. They were in the living room eating some of the chocolate chip cookies she’d made for him. She’d also brought a big piece of obsidian, a gift from her parents. Sounding like she had a lump in her throat, she added, “And he—we—had an adventure. Right?” There was a lot going on in her voice. There were a lot of mixed-up and unnameable feelings there. He felt them too. He felt bad. And guilty. And who knew what else.

  “Also,” she said.

  When she didn’t say anything more, Hank looked over at her. She seemed very immersed in twisting the bottom of her shirt.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Also… I am”—she let go of her shirt, looked up at him; when he instinctively turned away she stared at his chest—“I am sorry that you and Booler got hurt. Really. That was scary.”

  He took another cookie and then stole a look at Maisie. “I’m sorry that some people are mean to you about your seizures.”

  She sat back, sighed. “I can deal with it.”

  Sam toddled by with a sippy cup, singing. Singing was his latest accomplishment. But he only knew one nameless and pretty tuneless song. It consisted of the word “bear,” as in “bear, bear, bear, bear, bear.”

  Maisie turned to Hank suddenly. “Hey, guess what? You’re sort of a superstar now—wait and see.”

  * * *

  He was indeed a superstar. On his first day back at school he got to show the whole class his stitches. He could tell by the questions his classmates asked—“Were you scared? Does it still hurt? Were you really trying to save a dog?”—that they were impressed. More than that, he could tell they actually saw him—just like he had seen Maisie—and he liked what they saw.

  “I’ve got some bad news for you,” said Mrs. Vera that same day. “We finished the book when you weren’t here.”

  “That is not bad news,” said Hank. “I hate that book.”

  “Is that right?” said Mrs. Vera, once again donning that completely unreadable half smile. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, it was a hard story. It had a sad ending. Some stories do. Sometimes we just do our best to endure.”

  Sadness tickled Hank’s throat and he thought again about the sad ending he and Maisie had nearly given Booler. He slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered his rocks. They were new. In fact, he had a lot of new rocks. Maisie’s parents had given him the piece of obsidian. His grandparents sent him a cool lamp made out of salt. Even one of the doctors gave him an old marble actually made out of marble.

  But Hank was not a superstar with Frank Jorgensen, and neither was Maisie. Frank hadn’t even answered the handwritten letters of apology that their parents had made them send him and Booler. And their playdates had been put on hold too. Maisie’s mom and dad had put the total Cinderella on her, telling her that she would be cleaning their house for the next twelve years, exchanging her labor for Booler’s veterinary bill, which they had insisted on paying. Hank’s parents had liked the Huangs’ cleaning idea so much that they put the total Cinderella on him too. Now when he went home he had to do all the annoying and boring tasks that his parents threw at him, including mopping the kitchen floor, cleaning out the linen closet, checking all the expiration dates on the canned food, sweeping out the basement (which he especially hated because it always somehow smelled liked boiled asparagus), and weeding the backyard.

  It was several weeks before Hank’s parents decided he had done enough cleaning and he had earned a break. School had ended. Hank and Maisie were official fifth graders, but Hank felt like a kindergartner heading off for his first day of school when he walked to Maisie’s. He was excited, of course. He would get to hang out with Maisie. He would get to see Booler—maybe. Maybe not. That was all up to Mr. Jorgensen, who Hank still had not heard from.

  Hank’s feet became heavier with each step he took, and by the time he reached Maisie’s his heavy feet were wary. What if Booler saw him and, instead of barking and wagging his tail in delight, he growled because he was so angry to see the boy who had gotten him hurt? What if the growling alerted Frank, who ran out with his aggressive walker and tried to roll over and squish him?

  By the time Hank reached Maisie’s he was sweating. He crouched down and tiptoed up the walkway to Maisie’s house. When no barking came from next door he gave a sigh of relief. He was about to ring the bell when his curiosity got the best of him. He inched over to the corner of Maisie’s house and peeked into Mr. Jorgensen’s yard. He saw Booler’s doghouse, but not Booler, not Honey, not Cowboy. No one was there at all.

  Maisie explained. Booler and Mr. Jorgensen had left with the evil daughter that morning to check out the “assisted living options” in Minnesota. Frank had asked Maisie’s parents to keep an eye on his house, as well as on Honey and Cowboy.

  “I guess he doesn’t trust us to take care of Booler, though,” Maisie told Hank sadly. They were lying on the grass and looking up at the clouds. During his cleaning stint Hank had found a book about clouds. Reading it, he came to an amazing discovery. There were actually many interesting facts about clouds. He was anxious to share some with Maisie.

  “Believe it or not,” continued Maisie, “I think we kind of maybe might have been wrong about the evil daughter. I mean, of course, she is evil, but not so evil th
at she wanted to put Booler to sleep. She came right over here and swore that she would never do anything like that, that putting Booler to sleep would break her father’s heart and, plus, make him really mad at her. Then she said that I should never listen to idol gossip, but I told her I’d been listening to my neighbors and didn’t even have any idols, so I didn’t know what the heck she was talking about.

  “And I guess the vet went ahead and fixed Booler when he was at the hospital. That means Booler can’t give Princess Lillikins puppies. Of course, now the evil daughter is all, ‘La-de-da, look at what a sweet dog Booler is.’ ” Maisie groaned. “Like she couldn’t have just seen that to begin with.”

  There was a clattering sound at Frank’s house and Hank turned his head to see Honey and Cowboy trotting into the yard through the doggy door. They went and sniffed Booler’s doghouse. Then they peed near the maple tree and began to circle the yard.

  “I feel really bad about Mr. Jorgensen,” confessed Hank.

  “Yeah. We really bought the wrong cookies there.”

  “Wait. There were cookies?”

  “I just mean we messed up. Big-time.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Hank. “Big-time.”

  He sat up and watched Cowboy and Honey go back into the house. He was reminded of how small and spooky he had first found the tiny little home, what with its peeling paint, one boarded-up window, and general air of disrepair. Then his gaze moved onto Frank’s yard. Now that he really looked, now that he saw it not just as an extension of where he and Maisie might play, he could see how forlorn it was. The lawn was as much weeds as grass and there were large sections of just dirt, especially under the maple tree where Booler spent so much time. And much of the ground—green or brown—was covered with dead plants, small sticks, and twigs, and even pieces of trash that had fallen out of the garbage months ago and become part of the fabric of the yard.

  “Mr. Jorgensen’s house is making me sad,” he said, standing up and looking again at the sad little house with the sad backyard.

  “Yeah. It’s making me sad too,” said Maisie, pulling herself up next to Hank.

  Hank put his hands on his hips. “I’m tired of it making me feel sad.”

  He crossed into Frank’s yard, Maisie right behind him. He knew suddenly what he needed to do, what he probably should have done months ago, and he carried himself like the hero of a story, his spine straight, his jaw clamped tight.

  “What are you going to do, Hank?” asked Maisie, following his lead for a change. She was jumping up and down and her eyes were shiny marbles. “You’re not going to burn Mr. Jorgensen’s house down, are you?”

  “No.” He shook his head, his disbelief coming out in a loud “pwww.”

  He went to the toolshed at the very back of the yard. He pulled open the door. The sudden light captured a scene sadder than the house itself. Abandoned garden and home-repair tools, all of them half covered in rust and dust, stood crowding one another at odd angles. Hank scanned the contents of the shed. He found an old rake and pulled it out.

  “I’m going to make this place happy,” he said.

  With short, even motions he raked the backyard, creating small debris piles that Maisie transferred to big plastic garbage bags brought over from her house.

  They began to hum their favorite song, belting out the refrain as usual, but then Maisie said, “I’m the boy and you’re Leah. We survived the war and beat the Nazis. And now we are cleaning up our little house in the forest. Leah, can you believe what a big mess those evil Nazis left? Nazis are the worst.”

  At the mention of the book, Hank felt the lurking presence of the a’a. Yes. Nazis were the worst. Hank had no doubt about that. They had killed people just for being different. They had killed people like him, people like Maisie, people like the boy. But he had been thinking about something Maisie had said in the forest. It would not leave his head actually, not when he looked at rocks, not when he looked at clouds, not when he swept the stinky floor. She had said, “What could people do to me?”

  Now that was as a’a a question as Hank could imagine. He knew bad people existed. But he figured that the best thing he could do was to not be like those people. He would keep being an orange instead of a lemon.

  “Actually, I’m Mowgli and you’re Baloo,” said Hank, as Honey and Cowboy once again came outside and, spotting Hank and Maisie, raced over to say hi. “Honey and Cowboy are friends of Raksha and we are all cleaning up so we can throw a party for our wolf mom.”

  “Yeah. A welcome home party! Oh, Mowgli, Raksha will be so surprised.”

  “Yeah. And Mowgli is going to tell everyone interesting facts about clouds because he knows lots of them.”

  When they were done with the raking, Hank started weeding while Maisie reseeded the dirt patches of the yard with leftover grass seed she found in her garage. She had also found leftover seeds for tomatoes and cucumbers, so when they finished working on the lawn they turned the dirt in a little raised bed that looked like it had gone unused for years and they planted Frank a vegetable garden. Hank found some nice-looking rocks and, between rows of seeds, he used them to spell out “sorry.”

  Around lunchtime, Mrs. Huang yelled, “Hold the phone! What the heck!” She was standing at the fence with her chin tucked into her neck.

  She said, “What are you two doing? Mr. Jorgensen didn’t…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes scanned the raked and weeded yard and the turned ground in the once-neglected raised bed.

  “Are you cleaning Mr. Jorgensen’s yard?” She looked from Maisie to Hank. “Nice work.”

  She returned soon with a blanket and a picnic, which they ate in Maisie’s yard while Cowboy and Honey, imprisoned on the other side of the fence, watched with fascination.

  The next day they tackled the front yard, weeding, covering dirt patches with grass seed, and pulling out dead plants and replacing them with young flowers that Mrs. Huang got for them.

  The day after that they swept Frank’s porch.

  The day after that they washed the windows, and when they reached the boarded-up window they talked to Mrs. Huang, who turned out to have the amazing skill of knowing how to replace a broken windowpane. How she’d kept that talent secret all these years was a mystery that boggled Maisie’s mind.

  Hank was not there when Frank and Booler returned home. He had gone camping with his family. They had a campfire and cooked hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks. Hank’s mom played her guitar and sang, and Sam listened while Hank told him all about clouds. When they got back there was a message waiting for Hank. Mr. Jorgensen wanted to talk.

  Uneasiness draped itself over Hank. It was not a’a, though. It was more like a Band-Aid that had worn its welcome. It was time to tear it off, and Hank was ready. He walked over to the little house with his mom and Sam.

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” she said to him, hanging back with Mrs. Huang while Hank continued on to the house next door.

  Maisie was with Frank when Hank got there. She was sitting on a camping chair near the doghouse. There was a chair set up for Hank. Frank sat on the little seat of his walker, Booler at his side. Cowboy and Honey sniffed the yard. At the sight of Hank, Cowboy and Honey trotted over. They sniffed at his feet and then flicked their tongues to lick his hands. Booler did not growl—that was a good sign. Instead, Booler walked as far as he could and waited for Hank to reach him. The dog lowered his head. His feet danced in place and his tail flopped back and forth.

  “Hey, Booler,” said Hank, his body instantly relaxing. “Good boy. Good boy.” His eyes fell on a long scar that cut across Booler’s silver fur. Hank felt a sudden lump in his throat, but the pit bull lurched up, rested his paws on Hank’s shoulders, and began to lick Hank’s face.

  “Booler!” exclaimed Hank, happy again. “I missed you too, boy.”

  When Booler settled down Hank took his place in the empty camping chair. He looked over to where he had left Sam and his mother, but they had gone into Maisie’s house.
He looked at Maisie, but she was looking at her lap. So he looked at Frank’s forehead. Then his mouth. He didn’t chance his eyes.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” Hank said.

  Frank’s mouth twitched. He said, “I appreciate you saying that, and I appreciate how much you care about Booler. But that’s not why I asked you here.” His mouth twitched again. He swallowed and said, “I wanted to talk about the things you two did to my house.”

  His house? They had only tried to make the house happy. The uneasiness that had begun to lift itself off Hank returned, heavier this time.

  Hank shook his head. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “The house was so sad.”

  Frank cleared his throat and dropped a hand onto Booler’s head. “I wanted to thank you for sprucing up my home. You did a nice job. Even Colleen was impressed. It was a thoughtful thing to do.”

  Hank pulled his rocks out of his pocket (orthoclase, hyalophane, olivine). The polite words that had come out of the man’s mouth did not match his voice, which was serious, very serious.

  “You know, I really don’t want to move. I love Meadowlark. Always have. My life, my friends, are here.”

  “We don’t want you to move either, Mr. Jorgensen,” said Maisie, copying her neighbor’s tone. “And not just because of Booler, but because of you. We like—”

  Frank held up a hand and Maisie stopped talking.

  “While I appreciate all the work you did over here, it—well, it and some other things—made me realize how much I’ve stopped doing, how much is now hard for me to do.”

  Maisie began to wilt. “Does that mean you’re moving to Minnesota?”

  “Well, even a few days ago I would have said yes, and to be honest I was getting kind of used to the idea.” He leaned back in his seat. “Turns out you were right about Colleen. She’s got some anger that’s been building up for years. Since the bowling alley.” He shook his head. Then he chuckled. “But she loves that I named Booler after her. Whichever one of you shared the gem, thank you.” He slapped his thighs and added, “The point is, we’ve been talking and, well, I guess it’s good to talk.”